“This song is my heart,” she tried to explain, lamely.
“Your heart?” he stared at her blankly.
“I don’t know how else to explain it,” she whispered. Her hands twisted invisible sentences like they were wringing dirty laundry. She felt inarticulate; a mute bleeding heart. Impotent, but without the power of capitalization: impotent– that is more like it. Every atom in her body wanted to scream, but as if physically wounded by fear, they became casualties of silence. She couldn’t look at him. If she did she was afraid her heart would climb up her throat and right out through the sockets and leave her defenseless. She refused to become undone infront of him. “It is everything I feel. I wish you’d understand… how hard it is…”
He could barely hear her, as if her voice had gone back in time and her past self was talking to his present self through tin cans on a string. He longed for her to be closer and not miles and space time continuums away.
“I’m trying to understand,” he said. And he was.
She felt hopeless. Words were her life. How could she not form a single sentence out of the scatters of thoughts in her head? Words remained prisoners, locked behind clenched teeth and sad starry eyes. If she could just find her voice, she would pour her soul out to him; all her fears, laid out like funeral pyres to be lit at his hands. How light she would feel. aaaaah! How cloud-like that would be. How like a dream. “I’ve seen a glorious day,” she thought.
He listened to the song and tried to understand.
She sat– a silent participant to history repeating itself– as man tired, and again, failed to communicate.